A mentally unstable woman chases a semi-nude man along a downtown street. A guy with a bullhorn cruises through town taunting other drivers. A man walking by himself shakes his fists and screams at enemies nobody else could see. It seems like half the population has a weapon and something to complain about.

Mardi Gras? Just another day in the Bronx? No. The Twin Cities on the longest day of the year.

It was June 21. The sun rose around 5 a.m. and it seemed to stay up there forever. By 8 p.m., there were long shadows, but no sign of night. The first day of summer and it was hot. Hot and bright into the late evening.

The long night promised a long season crammed with activity. Simmering days and sultry nights and downtown dynamics on display. I stocked up on notebooks and prepared to tackle story after story of city drama.

I was a constant inner-city presence on the longest night of the year. I buzzed in circles around the downtown like a bee around a hive. The windows were down and the radio up. By 9 o’clock, the sky was still a faint blue and everything seemed to cling to the fading light.

Flash forward. It’s 5 p.m. and already full dark. I’m buzzing across Longley Bridge, rubbing circles into the windshield trying to remove the frost. Headlights illuminate grayish grit on the windows, making the whole world look out of focus.

The defroster blows cold air onto the windshield and into my face. Suddenly, the gas pedal beneath my booted foot becomes squishy. The engine groans. The car lumbers forward like a beast with a ghastly injury. Cars and trucks pile up behind me as I try to manage the dying rig off the bridge.

Ice in the gas line? An inadequate mixture of antifreeze and water? One of Santa’s Little Helpers stuck in my tailpipe?

Who knows? Who cares? I should have stayed in bed. On the shortest day of the year, that which can go wrong most certainly will.

It had been below 20 degrees for two straight nights. On and off snowstorms left a slick of brown slush on the roads. Driving was perilous. The whole world seemed to be dirty, even after nightfall, which occurred at about 4 p.m.

The streets were entirely empty, save for the long lines of angry people in cars and trucks behind me. The police scanner was quiet because even the hardiest city folk were at home whimpering softly next to space heaters.

When you compare the two nights of seasonal solstice, the quality of life comparisons are mind-numbing. On June 21, you can finally strut yourself in shorts and T-shirts without freezing to death. On Dec. 21, you’d better have five layers of clothing on because you’ll surely lose body parts otherwise.

On the first night of summer, fat, lazy clouds roll across a purple sky as the day finally gives in at about 9 p.m. On the first day of winter, daylight crumbles like a washed-up fighter well before supper time.

In June, you can stick your tongue on a flagpole any time you want and all you’ll get is a bad taste in your mouth. Try that in December and they’ll have to call for extrication and you’ll be the laughingstock of the entire city.

I’m not saying I want to lick a flagpole. I just like knowing I can.

Now it’s March. Cheery people remark that the days are getting longer and every day is another step toward spring. I’d run them down if my car would go. But instead, I write whiny columns week after week.

This week, I feel OK about writing a spleeny column about the weather because I’ll be in Vegas by the time it hits the streets. After the glory of the summer solstice and the agony of the first day of winter, you think I’m hanging around for the spring equinox? Hell, no. I’m heading west.

If you people get nailed with another storm while I’m gone, I’ll laugh like a lunatic and dive into a water fountain. I’ll get into a fistfight with Wayne Newton and lose all my money betting the hooker races. It will be embarrassing to get whooped by the aging crooner and I won’t have any dough, but so what? Anything’s better than another day of thigh-high snow and 4 inches of ice on the windshield.

There had better not be any snow at Area 51. All my life has been a rehearsal for a trip to that notorious military base in the wilds of Nevada. The alien bodies. The stashed spaceships. The truth is out there, friends, and I aim to find it. With any luck, I’ll be flying back to Lewiston with anti-gravity technology. It’ll be a sweet ride. Plasma engine fueled by anti-matter. Handling wormholes like a dream.

Look for me over Lisbon Street. The thing will probably get stuck in the snow the first time I try to park it.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter.